


The Vampire's Thrall Ball

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians
Genre: AU, M/M, Vampires, gothic themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: A vampire searches for his eternal companion.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: Kinktober Horror Erotica Collection by Quentins_Quill





	The Vampire's Thrall Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Story 1/31 of Kinktober 2020: Queliot Edition!

The Vampire’s Thrall Ball 

The ballroom of the ancient castle flickered with the wavering lights of a hundred candles. From grand candelabras to single tarnished candlesticks, wax pillars occupied every area of the room, illuminating the dozen young men who mingled there. All wore dark trousers and white silk shirts, but the cravat on each was a different color, from lapis to seafoam, aubergine and scarlet. 

The candles flickered for a breath and the thralls’ gazes jerked toward the main entrance to the ballroom as the glass double doors opened and a tall figure swept inside. His dark curls hung to nearly his shoulders and made shadows along his high, pale cheekbones. Gleaming amber eyes surveyed the group and Count Eliot D’Lecure-Waugh removed his ebony top hat and set aside his ivory walking stick, the arrow-straight length topped with a diamond the size of an infant’s fist. 

“Come,” he said, and his thralls went to him as one. Eliot watched them, noting their shapes, the subtle highlights in their hair, their young, smooth cheeks. Yes, he’d fed from each of them and fed them his own blood as well, but this evening, when the moon was at its peak, he would choose a thrall to sire--a partner who would share his home, his meals, his love of  _ objects D’ Art  _

(he hoped), and his bed. Each young man was a delight to the senses but worry nagged at the back of the vampire’s mind--this was his third thrall’s ball in 75 years and each time, his attempt to sire a companion had failed. 

This time, though, there was one thrall--yes, that one, at the edge of the group, his cravat a shade of orchid so pale it was almost silver. His fine-boned hands fluttered at the edges of his vest, tawny hair pulled back into a rather careless cockernonnie. Eliot remembered sampling this one outside a London bookstore just after dark a few weeks ago, his blood rich, sweet, and nourishing. The young man’s eyes, dark and shimmering, had closed in ecstasy upon the feeding, making a small mewling sound that let the vampire know he was untried. 

Now, Eliot held out a hand toward the skittish lad as he dismissed the others with a glance. They would remain in thrall and serve him until they were no longer needed. He took the smaller man’s hand, feeling the rush of blood through the veins in the human’s wrist. 

“Tell me your name.” 

“It’s Quentin, Master. Quentin Coldwater.” 

“Quentin Coldwater. To you, I grant my gift, that of immortality, to hunt by my side by the light of our ever-present goddess . . . Eliot waved a hand at a nearby balcony door, which opened to fill the spot with moonlight. He took Quentin’s hand, rested the other on his hip, and led him into a sweeping waltz across the ballroom in time to music that seemed to come from everywhere at once, although no visible orchestra played in the massive room. Quentin Coldwater trembled under Eliot’s touch. 

“Soon you will have nothing more to fear,” Eliot told him. “You will no longer have to hide between the pages of books or in a lonely room because the agony of being human is like an iron manacle around your neck. You will rise above what you are, like the fabled phoenix, and inspire both terror and dark thrills in those you prey upon--you will no longer curse humanity but rather feed on it . . . command it!” Eliot spun him out onto the balcony, where the full moon drenched them in opalescent light. Eliot pulled the young man’s orchid cravat free, exposing his pale throat. 

“Free me, Master . . .” Quentin murmured, staring up into Eliot’s honeyed gaze, and Eliot buried his face in smooth flesh, fangs sinking deep and drinking the hot, pulsing rush of blood that escaped the twin holes. Quentin jerked in his hold, helpless, but Eliot could sense his thrall’s eagerness for the change. Despite this ritual, none ever survived. The last Eliot had tried to sire never woke after the feeding and the vampire left him on the step of his family’s mausoleum just before dawn, in a London cemetery. That had been 25 years ago, but the memory of the dead man’s face, framed by lovely blond curls, was still fresh in Eliot’s mind. 

_ If this should fail again _ , Eliot thought to himself, I _ shall never hold another human in thrall and exist in solitude.  _

Quentin’s heartbeat faltered then and Eliot drew back to regard the lad’s lovely face, now looking as if it was cast in marble. Eliot bit into his own left wrist and raised his arm, letting scarlet droplets strike Quentin’s lips. 

“Drink,” Eliot murmured. “Drink and be mine.” 

After the space of several fading heartbeats, Quentin’s lips twitched and then parted as he sought more of his sire’s life-giving blood. Both went to their knees as Quentin’s eyes snapped open and he grasped Eliot’s arm to fasten his lips to the dripping holes. Pain, crowned with a thin halo of pleasure, chased up Eliot’s spine and raced to his nerve endings like a frenzied stag. He put his other hand to Quentin’s head as the bond formed between them. Quentin pulled away then, his lean form jerking as he spasmed against the balcony’s iron railing. He stilled all at once and Eliot knelt there, offering his pledge to a bright but silent moon that hung over master and thrall like a tarnished coin. Eliot closed his eyes, bereft once again, as Quentin lay still, his last chance for companionship now a bloodless husk. He cursed the moon, his darkness, and his own making when a hand fell on his shoulder. Eliot opened his eyes to find Quentin kneeling there, dark eyes and tawny hair gleaming. Then he smiled, the light of the full moon dancing along two slim, served fangs. 

The young man was a thrall no longer, and Eliot’s blood sang as he saw hunger and desire and passion for the hunt in his new companion’s glittering eyes. His lips dripped with Eliot’s blood and Eliot leaned in to lap it away. Quentin’s smile widened, showing his newborn fangs, ivory instruments of death in the waxy light of the moon. 

“My beloved,” he said. 

_ Fin  _


End file.
